Regeneration is a Rotten Way to Learn that your Best Friend's an Alien
by Night Vale City Council
Summary: "The brain is what's important. Everything else is just transport." – Sherlock Holmes
1. Chapter 1

"I'm going out," Sherlock mumbled, already halfway out the door.

"I'm coming with you," John said automatically, shutting his laptop and reaching for his coat.

"No."

"Oh, don't you think so?"

"It's nothing. I'll be fine."

"I don't care if you're infiltrating the government or shopping for milk, have you seen what happens when I'm not around?"

"I'll be _fine_." Sherlock started down the stairs, and John followed after him. No way was he letting this go.

Sherlock pulled open the exterior door and strode outside, turning around to say something, but a dreadful _B-B-BANG_ cut him short: gunshots, echoing away down Baker Street like smoke in the wind. He began to fall, and only then did John see the bullet holes riddling his dark coat.

"Sherlock!"

He was at his friend's side in a heartbeat. Though he knew enough to keep his head at a time like this, his throat didn't seem to be working properly. He felt Sherlock's wrist and there was a pulse, but it was ever so faint…he fumbled for his phone.

"Too late," gasped Sherlock. "Put that down, John, _put it down, it's started…_ "

"What? Hey, hold on, what are you doing? You have to keep still, don't—"

Sherlock had got to his feet, staggering slightly. The amount of blood on the pavement said he should be dead, but so did the half dozen bullet holes in his chest, and John found himself willing to trust that this was not as bad as it looked. He didn't speak until they were back inside the building, Sherlock leaning heavily on him and being unusually quiet as they ascended the stairs.

"Okay, basic explanation, please."

"I was told not to bring anyone, you came, I died. Can't tell you where, still can't, but I really, really should have seen it coming, _stupid_ , hello Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady gave a piteous cry. "Sherlock, you look frightful! What's happened?"

"Not now, _please_ not now…"

"Here we are, then:," John said as his patience snapped, "either you look Mrs. Hudson in the face and tell her you've just got yourself shot, or you explain what's really going on."

Sherlock stumbled away from John, swaying dangerously as he faced him on the stairs. "John, listen to me. It's not a trick. I'm going to die."

John's stomach did another lurch. The one time something was really as it seemed, of course it was this. But just as he was reminding himself of the things that didn't add up, he noticed something else.

"Erm, you're glowing."

Sherlock took one look at his hand, from which luminous golden dust was trailing, and bolted up the stairs. John raced after him, cursing loudly enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear behind him.

Sherlock had reached the toilet, but before he could latch the door, a kind of spasm wracked him; he leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard.

The glowing edged up his neck. He seemed to be growing less solid. His eyes met John's; he looked frightened.

"Everything is going to change. I'm sorry."

John swallowed. "I don't understand." He didn't. He had the sense of teetering on the precipice of a black descent into some new brand of madness. And then Sherlock exploded.

He erupted like a volcano, his hollow coat spewing golden light from the neck, arm and bullet holes. Watching him burn away, faceless and still—scarecrow-like—had to be the fifteenth most horrible thing John had ever seen. Transfixed, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs. Hudson came up beside him: she made a small noise of shock, but immediately fell silent, and John felt likewise that they must not make a sound, though he could not explain why.

The energy dissipated abruptly, leaving a complete stranger looking quite startled and disorientated and still wearing Sherlock's clothes: tall, with snow-white hair that stuck up in odd places, his bright blue eyes out of focus.

In an instant he turned a piercing gaze on John, who flinched away but realised he was already flat against the wall. For a moment they just stared at each other as John struggled to find his voice.

"Who the hell are you?" he managed at last.

The stranger looked a bit surprised, like he hadn't thought of that before. "Me? Oh, I'm still Sherlock Holmes, I think…" And he collapsed on the tile floor, unconscious.

There was a deathly silence.

"I'll make tea," said Mrs. Hudson in a small voice, and she too was gone, leaving John quite alone, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly as he stared after her.

It did not feel like a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

A man, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of the loo, half-formed skin still sparking faintly like weak sunlight on the bottom of a pool. John Watson, hunched on the lip of the bathtub with his head in his hands, despairing.

Compelled by habit, he'd checked the man's vital signs right away. His breathing was shallow and his heart was racing, but he was alive and would most likely be fine. Fleetingly he'd considered moving him to bed, but that would mean accepting his identity, and he couldn't. This couldn't be Sherlock. It was too wrong.

And then Sherlock's last words had come back to him: _Everything is going to change._ Sherlock had expected this, that much was clear. He'd even apologised unprompted for freaking John out—a definite first. But what on earth was it that had actually happened?

And so here was John, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, trying to work out what he knew, getting nowhere, and reevaluating his life. He'd only meant to pause for a moment, but time wasn't passing normally today, and he still hadn't moved when he heard the teapot whistle. The sound was so utterly _normal_ that it hurt.

The thought of the landlady finding him still here was enough to rouse him from his stupor. And he decided the least he could do was get this guy off the floor.

Several minutes later, covered in sweat, he heaved the body up onto Sherlock's chair just as Mrs. Hudson came by. Gasping for breath, he acknowledged her with a sidelong nod and sank onto his own chair. Human bodies were not light. (Neither, generally, are Time Lords.)

"Strange day, isn't it?" she said, looking at the white-haired man. She sounded a bit concerned, but not at all frightened. John was. He was terrified. Suddenly he felt inexpressibly grateful that he wasn't alone.

He sighed. "Sure, strange is one word. Bit of an understatement."

"How long d'you think before he wakes up? Hope you two can work this out."

John realised she believed without a doubt that it was Sherlock who sat across from him now. Was she too gullible, or was he in denial of an obvious fact?

"Well, I'm not waiting around," he said, standing, "or the tea'll get cold, you know." He slapped the stranger hard across the face.

No response. John checked for a pulse, just to be sure. It was there, but… _Okay, that's bizarre._ He'd never heard of a _double_ pulse before.

"Something wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asked as he moved to unbutton Sherlock's coat. He put a hand on the man's chest where his heart should be. It wasn't there; it was further to the left. Then he moved to the right, because all he needed was more insanity today.

A few moments later, confused and defeated, he turned round. "He's got two hearts," he announced.

The landlady blinked mildly, thinking she'd simply misheard. He didn't blame her.

Two working hearts, in completely separate regions of the chest. And he'd checked, earlier, he'd checked and there had definitely been just one. But—of course it was the last thing he'd been worried about at the time—it _had_ been left of normal, hadn't it? The whole cardiovascular system was fundamentally incompatible with anything seen in chordates, let alone a human. This was no chance mutation.

And the alternative to human was…what? An alien? The kind of alien whose humanoid appearance was a convenient coincidence for low-budget TV producers, or the kind that crawled out of a stolen skin to eat you?

Or both?

Frankly, it was a ridiculous idea, even by this day's standards. There was only one way he was ever going to find out anything, and John was running on very little patience today.

"Goddammit, whoever-you-are"— _slap_ —"WAKE _UP!_ "

This time the white-haired man jumped a mile high with a startled grunt, then looked up accusingly at John. "What the hell was that for? —Oh. Oh, that's _odd_." He was feeling his face: his relative lack of cheekbones, his jaw, his teeth. Suddenly he jumped up, forcing John to take a step back. "Not the least bit important, but still, odd, don't you think?" He grinned, eyes piercing.

John, pulling himself together, met the unfamiliar eyes warily, his planned vituperation not forgotten but perhaps better saved until he knew what he was facing. He could handle Sherlock, and he could handle a stranger, but he'd never imagined a man who was _both_. What had he unleashed?

"Not sure about this voice, though, really," Sherlock mused. "I quite liked it before."

John noticed Mrs. Hudson quietly leaving just then, and failed to catch her eye. Part of him wanted to scream. _Am I crazy? Why am I the only one freaking out about this?_

Because, John. Moirallegiance is a powerful thing.


End file.
